


from out of nowhere

by leapylion3



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark, F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Kink Meme, Murder, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 23:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leapylion3/pseuds/leapylion3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He smiles sadly. “This is not the first time I’ve been beaten by a Stark for a redheaded girl.”</p><p>Arya remembers the story. Her mother had told her, a lifetime ago. <em>The Wild Wolf…I am the Wild Wolf now.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	from out of nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the prompt: 
> 
>  
> 
> _Petyr is once again beat down by a Stark with grey eyes and a solemn face for a beautiful red headed girl_
> 
>  
> 
> _AKA the one where Arya saves Sansa from the Vale and kills Petyr for what he did to Sansa._

There is no preparation this time. She does not watch him for weeks on end, does not silently deliberate which way would be best. She is usually careful, quick and clean. But this time, she does not care if it looks like an accident or not. 

She is not paid for it this time. This is for _her_. She will be selfish for once, carry out her own wishes. Her own coin was used to buy passage on the ship, to rent the mule to take her to the Eyrie. 

It is not only for her, though. It is for her sister. The one who called her Horseface in their youth, the one who would laugh about her with the steward’s daughter, the one who lied to the king and queen for her precious prince. But she is her sister nonetheless, and all those acts have not made her love her sister any less. 

The face she wears as she steps into the castle is her own. In truth, it is probably the only one that will gain her entry. Arya Stark of Winterfell, come back from the dead. Lady Lyanna Stark reborn. A part of her still whispers that she is no one, but she’s been no one for years. She’s tired of being no one. 

She lets them dress her up in a pretty gown for supper that night, one that is a bit too big on the chest, and too tight on the hips. With tears in her eyes, she realizes it must be one of Sansa’s old gowns; she can recognize the needlework. Arya wears her sister’s dress much more proudly after that. She has grown into a comely maid of fifteen, though she is not your conventional beauty. She is sharp and rough where she should be soft and smooth. 

She plays the part of the smiling lady well enough. She can almost laugh; it must be the first time in her life that she’s using all the courtesies she was taught when she was a young lass. But she has motivation now, she has a mission. 

“I need you to come with me,” Arya whispers when she’s alone in her chambers with Sansa. Her sister’s brilliant red hair is dyed an ugly brown, one even more mud-like than Arya’s. “I came here for a reason, you know.” 

Sansa’s complexion becomes ghost white, her blue eyes wide. “M-my lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“ _Yes you do_!” Arya screams, shaking her sister by the shoulders. She wants to cry and scream and kick and punch and _make her remember_. She lowers her voice, not wanting to attract unwanted attention. “You are Sansa Stark, heir to Winterfell. You know who you are. You know your name.” 

Sansa breaks down crying, collapsing into Arya’s arms. The younger girl leads her to the bed, and they fall asleep cuddled up to one another, like they used to when they were small girls in Winterfell. Petyr can wait one more day. Her sister needs her now. 

* * *

Arya goes to Petyr’s chambers late the next night. She wears a thin silk robe, but underneath is a belt with a dagger she stole from the kitchens. Sansa knows the plan perfectly; all she has to do is wait for Arya’s cue. 

“My lady,” Petyr greets her, followed by a sweeping bow. He offers her a glass of wine, which she promptly refuses. “Forgive me, my lady. I forget sometimes that you are still…quite young.” His eyes sweep up over her body, and she holds back a shudder. 

“I’ve come to give you…a gift, my lord.” She smiles sweetly, batting her eyelashes. “A thank you for your hospitality.” Petyr grins and lets her sit him on the edge of the bed. “It’s an ancient thing, all the way from Braavos.” 

He raises his eyebrows slightly. “I will admit that you have peaked my interest, my lady.” 

Her eyes sparkle wickedly, even more so when she can see the first few lines of worry etched on his face. She knows how to read a man, and Petyr is easier to read than everyone says. You only have to _see_ , instead of _look_. “I’m glad, my lord.” As quick as a snake, she strikes, the dagger in her hand. 

Blood does not frighten her. She has grown used to it. It is relieving, in a way, almost refreshing. As Petyr’s lifeblood drips down his chest, the chains holding her sister are broken. 

“A sacrifice to the Many-Faced God,” she explains, twisting the knife in Baelish’s chest. She smiles cruelly when he coughs, drops of blood flying from his mouth. 

“Why?” he asks, wheezing. “Why not poison me and be done with it? Or send someone to do it for you?” 

“The man who passes the sentence should always swing the sword, my father told me once.” Her hands are soaked in his blood, but she does not care. “And I wanted to see your face as your life slowly came to an end.” 

He smiles sadly. “This is not the first time I’ve been beaten by a Stark for a redheaded girl.”

Arya remembers the story. Her mother had told her, a lifetime ago. _The Wild Wolf…I am the Wild Wolf now_. “Neither of those redheaded girls were ever your ladies,” she spits, thrusting the knife upward. “ _Valar morghulis,_ my lord.” She pulls Petyr’s small blade out of his belt. “That one was from my mother,” she nods to the dirk in his chest, “and this is from my sister.” With one swift movement, she cuts across Petyr’s throat, sending a new wave of blood trickling forward. 

Arya leaps out the open window, sliding down the rope she and Sansa had put there before. She throws the rock at Sansa’s window. She waits a few moments, then hears the scream. _Right on cue, dear sister_. 

She swings around, climbing around the castle. She smirks as she slips into her chambers. She hopes Petyr appreciated the gift. 

 _Valar dohaeris_.


End file.
